


The Comfort of a Captive and Captor

by TeamGwenee



Series: The Kingslayer's Captive [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Captor/Captive, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Jaime is Brienne's enemy. Brienne is Jaime's prisoner. They are not friends and they do not care about the other at all.Not at all.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: The Kingslayer's Captive [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814104
Comments: 6
Kudos: 74





	The Comfort of a Captive and Captor

Jaime was on patrol when the cry went up at camp. There had been sightings of gangs of outlaws lurking along Roseroad, and they needed cleaning up before trade opened with the Tyrells once more and food started flowing in from the South. Had he been present, the messenger would have been sent directly to him, and it would have been down to Jaime to spread the news. Instead his return to camp was greeted with spontaneous celebration and riotous merrymaking, and the Maid of Tarth’s ugly face as grey and clammy as a trout. 

He found himself feeling sorry for the Wench. Had he been present, he could have broken the news to her himself. Instead of her having to hear it from the raucous cheers and cries of his soldiers. 

Renly Baratheon and his guards captured, to be taken directly to King’s Landing for trial.

No doubt the knights arrested along with Renly would be given the chance to recant their allegiance, bend the knee and beg the King’s pardon. A chance that would be taken more than not. And Joffrey, under Tywin’s iron grip, would comply. Ser Loras Tyrell, the last Baratheon’s most devoted supporter, would slip the noose even if he heard the king to his face, although doubtful he would be given the chance. No doubt the Tyrells would wrangle pardons for all their family, repentant or not, in return for the bounty of Highgarden. Maybe even a marriage for the little rose herself. The Lannisters may have reigned victorious against Stag, Rose and Wolf alike, but the wars had cost them harshly and the Lords of the Reach could name their price. 

But Renly, Brienne’s precious King Renly, he was a dead man walking. 

Brienne became sullen and withdrawn. She was never loquacious, but Jaime found that if he struck the right now, she would respond in the most entertaining way. The Wench never did anything in half measures. She was either quiet, reserved and remote, or frank, heartfelt, and almost childlike in her innocence. There was no middle ground. Her transitions between the two states were fascinating to watch. 

Jaime was sorry to see that spirit die. The Wench had disappeared into herself completely. Quite gone away inside.

For some reason, Jaime found himself almost wanting to comfort her. 

~

He took her on patrol with him and a group of twenty men. She had been restless and idle at the camp, surrounded with hostility and poisoned words. The chance to ride a horse outside of the train might help bring her out of her funk. 

He did not arm her, of course. He did not expect any trouble on this particular patrol. They were not riding out too far from the camp, and there had been no sightings of outlaws in these parts. Still, Jaime found himself buckling an extra sword to his belt, to be handed to the Wench if trouble should arise. She was his prisoner, and under his protection, after all. She would fetch a pretty ransom if they could get her safely back. And with those muscles and her skill, t’would be a waste guarding her when she could take care of herself.

The village they were riding out to had been gutted. Grief permeated from the crumbling stone cottages. Large pale stones torn from the walls and scattered, half buried in the dirt like skulls. 

From the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Brienne drift away from the group. He followed to the furthest point of the village, on the edge of the woods and far from his men, to see her standing listlessly over a great mound of earth, dug about two months passed. Whoever survived the massacre had buried their dead, then left with everything they could carry.

Brienne surveyed the ruins. The fire had returned to her eyes, Jaime noted, but it was not flames of righteousness. More like lone candles lit in remembrance, flickering at the foot of the Stranger.

Her eyes truly were astonishing. A deep, clear blue. Gentle and innocent as the Maiden’s. 

“Was it Lannisters who did this?” Brienne whispered softly. 

Jaime shrugged. “ Who can say. They all look the same in the end. It was the same in the Riverlands. It did not matter if it is Lion, Stark or Stag. Once they descend, they strip the land bare like buzzards on a carcass. Maybe my father saw some advantage in sacking this village. Maybe it was a stray squad with the fire battle in their veins, looking for some plunder. Maybe it was outlaws, deserters with nothing left to lose. Maybe it was your precious Renly.”

“No,” Brienne said vehemently. “Not Renly. He would never do a thing like this. He’s good.”

Jaime didn’t bother correcting her, opening her innocent blue eyes to the truth of her beloved king. Of all kings. 

He let it lie. What did it matter? Renly would be dead soon enough, and Brienne parcelled back to her father. 

"Lords are meant to protect their people," Brienne insisted. "They guard the innocence and protect the weak. That's what good lords do. Good knights. Good kings. Renly, he is good."

"All rulers, when given the choice between the lives of smallfolk and their own power, will choose power every time," Jaime told her.

Brienne swallowed. "Then there are no good lords," she said hoarsely.

He waited for Brienne to get back on her horse, but she stood lost in her reverie. Jaime dismounted, took a step forward, then back. He hesitated, cursing himself as her silence grew longer. Why was he bothering himself with the sensibilities of this ludicrous girl? He should demand she follow him back, instead of lingering at her side waiting for a sign she was ready to move. _He_ was the commander. _She_ was his prisoner. She was ready to move when he was ready to move.

“Move!” 

Brienne’s hand flew to her side for a sword that wasn’t there as she cried. 

_Had Jaime time to pass her his sword before a vagabond tackled him to the ground and two more threw themselves at Brienne, he might not have returned to camp a cripple._

Jaime felt warm blood trickling down the back of his neck as his head hit the ground with a thud. Stars danced in his eyes as he looked up at the creature pinning to the ground. His cheeks were hollow and lips pale and cracked. His eyes filled with a feral hunger. Hunger for food. Hunger for justice. Hunger for blood. Some poor soul who had lost everything to the games of the high lords. Driven half mad with grief, all remaining shreds of sanity vanished at the sight of a Lannister banner.

Jaime could dimly hear the muffled sounds on fist on skin, and the crunch of bones. Grunts and moans. A scream of pain.

_Not Brienne’s. Don’t let it be Brienne’s._

Blood gushed from the back of Jaime’s head and the corners of his eyes filled with shadows. All he could see was flaring nostrils and the snarl of a mouth.

_Get to your sword. Your sword._

Jaime’s assailant reared back, his left hand pinning Jaime to the ground, his right arm drawn back and his fist clenched to strike a blow. Through the fog in his eyes Jaime could see his foe was unbalanced. Jaime lurched to the side, sending him sliding to the grounf with a thud.

Fire roaring through Jaime’s veins, skin wet with blood and cold sweat, Jaime drew his sword and plunged his blade into the back of the poor bastard as he flailed helplessly in the ground. 

An unarmed Brienne was putting up a valiant fight. She landed a punch to the stomach of the first, sending him doubled over, before pulling it back in one fluid motion and smashing it against the nose of the second as he came at her from the back. She then clasped both her hands to bring them down upon the bent man’s head, leaving her face open. The bent man plunged his fingers into her eyes, causing her to screech, and her foe from behind locked her neck in his arms. The first man withdrew his hands from Brienne’s face and went for a dagger at his belt.

Jaime stumbled forward, his heart and the thundering hooves of his men pounding in unison.

Before the outlaw could touch Brienne with his dagger, Jaime thrust his blade through the back of his neck.

Alone, and facing down the Kingslayer with steel in his hand, the bastard knew he was a dead man walking. He went barrelling into Jaime, Brienne still in grip, and the three plunged to the ground. 

Jaime’s sword flew out of his hand as Brienne’s heavy weight pressed him to the ground. Their attacker buried his fingers in Brienne’s hair, yanked her head back, and smashed her face first into Jaime. She screamed as her nose shattered and blood gushed down Jaime’s face and into his mouth. 

The Lannister bastard, dazed and winded, vulnerable and his arms splayed out, was ripe for the broken outlaw to strike a blow for all who had lost their lives and loves to noble whims. In his final moments, he stumbled to his feet, and grabbed Jaime’s fallen sword. Brienne rolled off Jaime, wincing as Jaime’s blade caught the sunlight. He was just about to plunge the sword into Jaime’s throat, but Brienne’s kicked him, swiping him off his feet. 

The pound and the calls of the Lannister troops grew closer. Hand still clenched around his stolen sword, gasping and growling, he drew to his knees, raised the blade, and skewered Jaime’s right hand.

The fallen lion roared in agony, and the outlaw laughed. He laughed to see the fine knight in his gilded armour weap and wail in pain, maimed and broken. He laughed as the blows of Lannister soldiers rained down upon him, and he died laughing. 

~

Jaime was returned to the camp and to a Healer quickly enough to save him, to stem his bleeding and keep the poison from his wounds.

But not quickly enough to save his hand. Even if the wounds healed, his fist would never close fully again, would never again wield a sword.

News spread through the camp like wildfire. The Kingslayer, the Lion of Lannister, was now a maimed cripple. 

Brienne waited beside Jaime as he uneasily drifted off into a drugged slumber. She watched his pallor for a sign of fever, listened to his breathing for a struggle. She sat taut and stiff, ready to run for a Maester.

In sleep, Jaime’s usual disdainful smile slipped away, and his handsome face was left tired and mournful. When he woke, he would be facing a world where he was no longer the greatest swordsman in the realm. 

Brienne rebuked herself for caring. He was a kingslayer and a Lannister and an oathbreaker. Her care for him was merely the repayment of the debt she owed him. He kept her from the molestation of his men and fought by her side. 

Jaime was her captor, Brienne was his captive. They were not friends nor comrades nor kin, and if he was awake Jaime would want nothing of Brienne’s comfort. 

Jaime moaned in his sleep, and Brienne tentatively ran her hand over his forehead, smoothing away the pained lines etched into his brow. He murmured beneath his breath, leaning into Brienne’s touch with a trace of a smile on his lips.


End file.
